Chapter Five
Roman awoke in the infirmary and lay silently wishing he could vanish from the face of the earth. The first defeat was devastating, filled with waves of embarrassment for his arrogance getting the best of him, but his second defeat was downright demoralizing. Shame crawled under his skin. Each breath he wheezed held a bitterness that ached his insides.
He’d lost a second challenge. He’d lost after declaring so much confidence. He’d lost after three hits. Maybe. That was all he could remember. The first one clocked hard and left him groggy. The second one, though… That hit knocked him off his feet. Was there a third strike? A blow that left him unconscious? Roman wanted to believe that. He wanted to hope there was some reason for his utter failure. He truly hoped he’d blacked out and would learn they’d gone more rounds, that Roman had put up a true fight, but that seemed more pathetic than wishful. Fixating on the fight itself almost drowned out the laughter in the arena. Mostly, he wanted to dwell on something, on anything other than the wager he’d made.
Much to his dismay, the nurse quickly discharged Roman and sent him on his way. He ignored the jokes at his expense and even the few men who walked up, instigating and ready to fight over any random perceived offense. Roman knew it was bluster, arrogance, and something that usually didn’t come his way. Most people didn’t bother him because they knew as the champion, he’d fucking obliterate them.
Without that title, people assumed he couldn’t fight or hold his own anymore. Two failures and all his successes were washed away entirely. But Roman knew he could take anyone who actually challenged him. Right? He wondered that more and more as he walked through the cellblock. He’d known for certain he could win the fight, yet he’d been wrong about that, too.
It didn’t take long for him to reach Ezra’s cell, the champion’s suite, Roman’s former living quarters that he’d worked so hard to better. Until Roman came along, there was no need for a champion’s suite. The longest reigning champion before Roman was Jake the Snake, and he’d barely held onto the title for two months before Roman knocked him off the pedestal. Maybe that was why Jake and the others could still hold their heads high. Their fall hadn’t been nearly as far. Roman held the title for over a year. Countless bouts, continuous victories, challengers ripped to shreds when faced with him, and yet none of that meant a thing anymore.
Roman kept his head low as he knocked on the open cell door and stepped inside. He didn’t want to see the nice wooden desk with functional drawers—something even most staff in the facility lacked. He didn’t want to see his shameful reflection in the wall mirror. He didn’t want to look at the plush cushioned chair in the corner opposite the bunkbeds. Most of all, Roman didn’t want to be here.
“Damn.” Ezra clapped his hands. “I had twenty on you not even showing. Guess we both lost a wager today.”
Heat filled Roman’s chest.
“You ready?” Ezra crossed the cell and closed the door, using his body to sort of push Roman deeper into the room.
“No.” Roman ground his teeth.
“I guess I can try to set the mood,” Ezra said with a little laugh. “What’s the ambiance for ‘deflower me, Daddy’?”
Roman shot Ezra such a sharp glare that if it’d been an actual swing, Ezra would have been knelt over and winded.
“I’m kidding,” Ezra teased. “I mean, not entirely. I’m gonna fuck you, and I won’t be gentle. I’m not gonna break you, but you’ll be walking with a limp to the cafeteria tomorrow.”
Roman couldn’t speak. He couldn’t risk saying something rude, flat out refusing Ezra, because it wasn’t just him on the line. He’d done this to help Levi. If he backed out here and now, after failing, Levi would continue to suffer.
“You came to me with the deal, dude,” Ezra said, stirring Roman from his thoughts. “I’m just here to cum and collect.”
Roman gritted his teeth, which only masked part of his feral huff.
“If we’re gonna be friends, you’re gonna have to learn to take a joke.” Ezra grinned, his entire expression light and carefree, except for his green eyes. There was malice in them, hidden behind the smile lines. “And learn to take dick. Lots of learning for you.”
“We’re not friends,” Roman finally said. Declared. Announced. Willed himself to state without cursing Ezra in the process. “We won’t be friends. I’ll room here. You’ll get me at night, whatever, but I’m my own person, and when we’re not fucking, you don’t speak to me.”
Ezra sucked his teeth while taking a sharp inhale. “Yeah, that’s not how this works. You offered yourself to me. I agreed because I want you. All of you. I get all of you. Friendship. Submission. Loyalty. Everything. Everything you do moving forward will revolve around me. Everything I do moving forward will ensure your protection and happiness. You will be mine in every sense of the word or not at all.”
“No,” Roman said flatly.
Ezra called it friendship, but it was just another word for being his full-time bitch, and Roman couldn’t muster that. He couldn’t stand here willing himself to be fucked. It was disgusting and degrading and demoralizing. Pride filled his chest with every breath, and he snarled at Ezra.
“The deal’s off,” Roman said. “Fuck you and fuck your friendship.”
“Well, pretty sure you just said we wouldn’t be doing that, but okay,” Ezra said with a playful shrug as he walked away. There was a swagger in his hips, something an old western cowboy might do. “You want to renege on the deal you made, that’s your choice.”
Choice. Christ, how Roman hated that word. He’d heard it so many times in his life it rang hollow. It was his choice to go to a local state school so he could stay close to his family and support them or his choice to take the out-of-state scholarship opportunity. It was his choice to celebrate with his friends after finals or stay in and be a boring loser. It was his choice to take another shot or be the group bitch who couldn’t handle his drinks. It was his choice to listen to some drunk trash-talk him or walk away. When he swung, when he struck the man down, he watched all his choices slowly disappear.
He failed to stop, making the wrong choice, and his violent actions knocked a friend into oncoming traffic. His deadbeat parents vanished when the charges came in, too busy taking care of the rest of the family, and since Roman couldn’t afford to bail them out since he didn’t even have enough money for his own bail, they didn’t need him anymore. No one called. No one visited. No one sent cards.
He had the choice to accept the terrible plea deal presented or go to trial, where even his lawyer made it clear they’d eviscerate him.
He had the choice to keep his head down in Marlow Penitentiary or hold his head high and fight off anyone who dared.
None of his choices felt like choices. And now he had no one. No friends. No allies. No family.
“You can leave now,” Ezra said, nodding to the door. “This bunk is reserved for my friend.”
That was it? Roman had expected Ezra to fight him on it. To demand he follow through. Part of him secretly hoped for Ezra to make the push, take the option out of Roman’s hand so he could preserve some semblance of his shredded dignity. If he didn’t have a choice, really truly ended up forced into serving Ezra, Roman believed he could follow through. But this willful act of making Roman submit, to smile as he belittled himself, infuriated Roman.
“Goodbye.” Ezra gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t room with folks too good for my time.”
Roman froze, knees locked and feet glued to the floor. Every part of him screamed not to go through with the deal he’d made, the foolish choice he’d agreed to, but another part whispered the harsh reality that faced him once he walked out of this cell, out of the champion’s suite for good. Roman knew he wasn’t the only one who would suffer if he stepped through that door. Levi depended on Roman, too. Levi had suffered at the hands of Ezra’s taunts and looming predators ready to strike. Still, Roman couldn’t will himself to submit, to surrender. He wasn’t built for it.
Unable or unwilling to accept Ezra’s choice, Roman bolted from the room. He barreled through the hallway, ignoring the jokes of other inmates, the bolstering, and he tried to think of what the warden would do to him.
Roman braced himself for landing in some slummy cellblock or roomed with predators so vicious he’d never get a full night’s sleep again, but he took a deep breath and walked into the waiting area outside the warden’s office.
He didn’t speak to Roman, didn’t see him, merely smiled from behind the glass panel of his door when news of Roman’s rejection reached his ears. Guards escorted Roman to a place he’d never seen. Not that he’d been permitted in all the cellblocks, but they mostly looked alike. Not this place.
A guard pushed him inside a damp, stone room the size of a closet with a bucket that took up a quarter of his living space. There was no bed here. There was nothing.
Roman had been tossed in solitary twice for getting mouthy. This wasn’t the same. Solitary had a toilet, a bed, padded walls, but this place…. This place was something he’d only heard rumors about.
He sank to the floor, terror weighing him down as he realized he’d die down here in The Pit.